“Your services, of course.”
“It’s been more than ten years,” he said.
“I’m sure it’s like riding a bicycle.”
The old man hobbled his way to a stained sofa, the foam of the cushions bleeding out through tears in the fabric, and fell into the seat. “Why?”
Al-Ghazi’s smile never wavered. “Do you know what truly resides within the Ark of the Covenant?” he asked.
“I couldn’t give a rat’s ass.”
“Not a religious man, I see.”
“Not too many people in Russia are,” he said curtly. “It kind of went to the wayside when Stalin came aboard.”
“Yes, of course.”
“So again: Why?”
“The Ark,” he began, “is said to contain five items: the two tablets of the Ten Commandments, a pot of gold Manna, the rod of Aaron, and one other item that cannot be seen or heard until it’s too late.”
There was a lapse of time as the two men stared at each other.
And then: “If you haven’t noticed,” said Leonid, “I’m an old man who doesn’t have much time. So get on with it!”
“It is said that once the lid of the Ark is opened, then those who are not selected by the God of the Covenant will die by the demons who reside within.”
Sakharov sighed. And al-Ghazi could see that the old man was becoming taxed.
“All I want you to do, Leonid, is to do what you do best.”
“Right now, it’s getting drunk.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
Al-Ghazi leaned forward. “A few days ago my group came in possession of the Ark of the Covenant and the lid was opened.”
“You’re saying you found the Ark?”
“The true Ark, yes.”
“And let me guess. There were no demons, right?”
“No demons,” he confirmed. “Another fallacy, I believe.”
“And what do you propose to do?” he asked. “Sell it to the highest bidder? Maybe to the Catholics or the Jews or the Muslims, whoever has the deepest pockets so that you can go on and continue to fund your terrorist campaigns?”
Al-Ghazi’s smile diminished. The old man was starting to get to him. “Nothing of the sort,” he answered tautly. “I have another purpose for it.”
“And that would be?”
“To fulfill a biblical prophecy that so many richly believe in,” he said.
“And what would that be? Not that I care, mind you.”
“Their prophecy states that the Ark of the Covenant serves as a preamble to World War Three. That the religious factions are willing to war over this box made of acacia wood and gold, simply for the history it possesses.”
“Doesn’t it bear the same historical nostalgia for you? You’re Muslim?”
“What Allah wants first and foremost is for the infidels to be annihilated. This Ark can serve as the catalyst to get this done.”
Leonid cocked his head and squinted. “You want to start a war?”
“Maybe not a war,” he said, “but a means to destroy all those who do not support the teachings of Allah. If a war starts, then it would be by Allah’s will.”
The old man reared his head back, just a little. “You’re friggin’ nuts,” he finally said.
“Religion is a hot-button issue,” al-Ghazi returned. “People are so devoted to the concept of their god that when someone dares to speak against their god or religion, they then become easily angered. But what would it be like, Leonid, if they cannot attain what they believe belongs to them rightfully? Animosities rise, tempers flare, and battles begin. And for what? A golden box?” Al-Ghazi studied the old man momentarily before speaking again. “People die every day in the name of religion,” he added. “And for a lot less.”
In fluid motion al-Ghazi parted the drapes, giving the old man a view of Moscow.
Leonid nibbled softly on his lower lip, and then looked out at Red Square, at the wide streets and at the domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral. He missed his life — missed what he had. And al-Ghazi picked up on this.
“Come with me,” he goaded. “Take back what Russia took away. Be someone who can make a difference.”
Make a difference. This simple statement affected the old man greatly, the words playing continuously in his mind the entire time he remained silent, obviously debating.
And then, after looking at al-Ghazi with a sidelong glance, he asked, “What is it that you want me to do?”
Al-Ghazi’s smile flourished as he leaned forward to draw Leonid into close counsel. “What I want from you, Leonid, is one thing.”
“And what would that be?”
“I want you to put the demons back inside the box.”
The old man knew exactly what he was talking about.
CHAPTER SIX
Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci sat in the Economy class looking out the window at the ocean below. White caps broke against waves that matched the color of an overcast sky, that of battleship gray. And rain began to dapple against the window as the plane rode the leading edge of a turbulent wind.
For the past few hours he considered many things, especially the moments on the papal veranda standing alongside Pope Pius holding counsel on many subjects, usually on splendid days where the sun was high in a cerulean blue sky. But he kept thinking about one thing: the stone guardrail that encompassed the landing.
It was beautifully crafted, the stonework bearing the images of angels and cherubs and stood nearly five-foot high, which was taller than most rails since it acted as a safety feature to keep those from toppling to the cobblestones below.
What was the reason for Pope Gregory to lean over the rail to such a degree that he would lose his balance and fall, especially at such an early hour when the shadows were at their darkest? Had he seen something below?
He rubbed his chin at the thought. Possibly, he considered. But there were other considerations as well. The man could have hoisted himself along the railing, and as an abomination to God cast himself over its edge to the street below, which Bonasero immediately disputed with incredulity. Or he could have been pushed. But this, too, was disputed with incredulity, since it would infer that Gregory was murdered.
Still, something nagged at him, something that went beyond the surface since the quick answer by investigating authorities was that it was nothing more than a horrible accident; therefore, any other alternatives were summarily dismissed with no need for further examination.
So the final report would read as this: Pope Gregory had died from the consequences of the fall. And that may be true, he thought, at least to a certain degree. But what precipitated the fall to begin with bothered him.
The cardinal closed his eyes, settled back in his seat, and waited for the plane to touchdown in Rome with a single thought on his mind: The pope’s death was not as simple or as clear cut as it seemed.
This he was sure of.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was night, and the old man sat alone in the darkness of his apartment with the threadbare shades pulled wide so that he could see the wonderful lights cast upon the domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral.
He had conceded, telling al-Ghazi that he would commit himself “to put the demons back into the box.” He was no magician, not a conjurer, not even a man who could urinate without a burning sensation that caused him a pain far greater than the arthritis that was plaguing his bones in the cold Russian weather.
In truth al-Ghazi was right, he considered. As beautiful as it was outside his window, the way the lights lit upon the colored domes of the cathedral, his Mother Russia was forever gone.